


unphotographable

by s0ulconnection



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, how to awang, how to balenciaga, how to fashun, how to roberto cavalli ten million seasons ago, i can't do math, i hate permutations and combinations, i spent half an hour on this and it's time to study chinese oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0ulconnection/pseuds/s0ulconnection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of photographs that Kagami did not take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unphotographable

unphotographable 

s0ulconnection | kuroko no basuke | aomine daiki/kagami taiga

 

This is a picture I did not take of Aomine wearing one of my t-shirts that I buried under the pile of ever growing clothes, mostly given from stylists and shows, where his dark skin was contrasting perfectly against the synthetic fibers of his tee and boxers after a hot shower.

 

This is a picture I did not take of us backstage at Balenciaga, with his arms looped around my neck and us grinning like the fools we are and Alexander Wang’s hair framing his face with his flurry of movements and seriousness before a show.

 

This is a picture I did not take of Aomine scratching his balls as we bummed around in my apartment before a casting that we so desperately needed because we were too poor to buy proper food.

 

This is a picture I did not take of Aomine’s hands in his underwear, slowly palming himself as he jerked off to a Japanese porn star, with his ragged breath and closed eyes as he imagined a tight hole to fuck.

 

This is a picture I did not take of when we were smoking by the curb of some unknown street littered with cigarettes and ash and mixed in with our spit and dry leaves while we decided to live our lives with no regrets and nicotine-stained exhalations.

 

This is a picture I did not take of when we both ordered the cheapest coffee and his fingers curled around the paper cup and his fingers almost brushed against mine as he passed me the cup with the dingy café in the background.

 

This is a picture I did not take of as I passed by him on the runway, him decked out in a rich navy coat and me wearing all black and holding a bag which looks like a   
trashcan, and he was looking so intense as he prowled down the ramp with fire blazing in his eyes.

 

This is a picture I did not take of as we went clubbing since we had no more shows and too much money to burn, his hair dripping with sweat and his eyes slanted and pupils dilated – probably from drugs – so beautiful that my heart stopped a bit and I couldn’t swallow past the lump in my throat.

 

This is a picture I did not take as we walked down the streets together, the heavy air clogging in our throats, which we tried to dispel with the last cigarette I had in my pocket, which we shared between us and from which I could taste Aomine at the back of my throat and clutching at my lungs.

 

This is a picture I did not take of him working at the store just round the corner, his hands firmly encased in the armour of dough and flour and the smell of fresh bread emitting from the pores of his hair as he came home from work.

 

This is a picture I did not take of me holding the boxes and moving them from the storeroom to the shelves with the harsh fluorescent lights shining above my head and the products neatly aligned just like the celebrities at the front row with eagle eyes and clawed hands around their phones and tablets.

 

This is a picture I did not take of our one-room flat with the mattress lying on the floor with our clothes scattered around.

 

This is a picture I did not take of his nose slowly and playfully bumping against my cheek as he pecked me in thanks of the meal I prepared for him.

 

This is a picture I did not take of him holding my cock in his hands pressing down on the slit as precome gushed out because I had been waiting for him so long.

 

This is a picture I did not take of his dick bumping against my leg as he blew me, with eyes closed and lashes fluttering against the contours and depths of his skull.

 

This is a picture I did not take of me going home by myself to a dark and empty flat, with a note that he was out with a bunch of friends for a beer.

 

This is a picture I did not take of him bent over with tears gushing from his eyes from laughing as I fell from the tree in the most ungraceful way possible.

 

This is a picture I did not take of us rutting against each other as he tried to pin me to the bed and I tried to flip him over.

 

This is a picture I did not take of me boarding the plane with one last look as I went back to the States without saying goodbye.

 

This is a picture I took of him as he was sleeping by my side.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by unphotographable by michael david murphy.


End file.
